Venetian Mask

by Rosalind Laker

  It was a warm evening and on the way home with Pietro, Elena plied the little fan that was Elizabetta’s gift to her while the Celano gondolier sang as if in defiance of the changes that had been wrought on Venice. Pietro, a generous man, was talking of buying her a house on the Riva degli Schiavoni where she would be near old friends at the Pietà, as well as giving her a more than adequate allowance. She was grateful for his kindness, for above all else she longed to leave the Palazzo Celano, that place of miserable and terrifying memories. When she was settled into the new house, she would start taking Elizabetta with her to concerts at the Pietà.

  From the felze of the gondola she glanced up at the Palazzo Manunta where she had first seen Marco. In the years since then she had danced many times in its great ballroom. Now the palace had been rented to a Spanish grandee. So many patrician friends had moved away from Venice, uncertain if they would ever return.

  “Look ahead, Elena. See those vessels coming?” Pietro remarked bitterly, for a number of boats bearing packed and crated treasures under French guard were on their way to a ship flying the tricolor in the lagoon. “There’ll be nothing left soon. A Veronese panel has been removed from the ceiling of the Great Hall in the Ducal Palace, and the monastery of San Giorgio has been robbed of that same master’s Marriage at Cana. The new French commander, who took over from his predecessor last week, is even more meticulous in looting the best and the most treasured. He has brought art experts with him to give advice.”

  Elena shook her head at such dedicated looting. Even the Bucintoro, the glorious state barge and symbol of Empire on which Marietta had sung for the Marriage of the Sea, had been systematically stripped of everything of beauty and value. Its hacked-off topwork had been burned in great bonfires in the Piazzetta in order that the gold could be recovered from the ashes. In a final galling act, the French had towed the hulk to be a guardship at the very place where the Doge had always thrown the gold ring into the sea in a ceremony that would never take place again.

  “Shall you approach this new commander on Domenico’s behalf?” Elena asked.

  “I have already done so. His aide informed me that the Torrisi case was closed and would not be reopened.”

  “Does Marietta know?”

  “It was my painful duty to tell her just before we left the Savoni house.”

  It seemed to Elena that the calls on Marietta’s courage were without end. Her thoughts were still with her friend as she and Pietro ascended the main staircase upon their arrival back at the Palazzo Celano. A servant came to meet her.

  “A visitor is awaiting you in the Tapestry Salon, signora.”

  “Oh? Who is it?”

  “He gave his name as Signor Contarini.”

  Elena gasped and clutched questioningly at Pietro’s arm. “Did you write to Nicolò? Because I haven’t!”

  “No, I wouldn’t have presumed such an action without consulting you.”

  Without realizing what she was doing, Elena broke into a run across the reception hall; but when she reached the double doors she paused, her hand hovering, not daring to open them. Then the decision was made for her. Nicolò must have heard her swift footsteps on the marble floor, because one door was suddenly pulled open. She and Nicolò faced each other. He smiled and all her doubts melted away.

  “I’ve come to take you home with me to Florence, Elena,” he said as if they had never been apart.

  Later, as they talked over supper, he explained that whenever the head of a great Venetian house died the news reached far and wide, in spite of political turmoil like that of the present time.

  “I waited for you to write, Elena.”

  “I didn’t dare. I thought you would have married, and even if not, I believed my long incarceration, about which I have told you, had changed me too much for you to still want me as your wife.”

  “You misjudge your own loveliness. I see no change in you and never will. Where do you wish our marriage to take place? Here or in Florence?”

  “In Florence. I want to leave Venice behind me.”

  “Then we shall set off for home tomorrow, my love.”

  All Elena had withheld from him was the disclosure that they had had a lovechild. She could not risk his wanting to take Elizabetta with them, for it would be too cruel to Marietta in her present trouble and too upsetting for the child to remove her abruptly. In Florence, Nicolò would be told. Then Elizabetta could come on a visit and in time the truth would be revealed to her. When and if Elizabetta ever wanted to live with them, it must be by her own choice.

  Elena saw that Nicolò was raising his glass and she took up her own. They smiled at each other, and across the table he put his hand over hers, which bore his betrothal ring. “To our future, Elena. May we never be parted again.”

  MARIETTA COULD NOT sleep that night after what Pietro had told her. But she would not give up. She tossed and turned on her pillows, constantly readjusting them and unable to gain any rest. Suppose she should go herself to the new commander?

  On this thought she propped herself up on an elbow and lit the candle by her bed. Then she lay back and gazed unseeingly up at the canopy of her bed as she contemplated what she should do. It was said that this new man had an eye for attractive women, and one of the most beautiful courtesans in Venice was seen constantly in his company. Marietta thought that if she could gain entrance to the Doge’s Palace the commander might listen to her pleas for her husband’s release, whereas a man would have no chance of gaining his ear.

  Throwing back the bedclothes, Marietta picked up the candle and took it across to the dressing table where she sat down to study her reflection. Men continued to leave her in no doubt that her sexual allure was still powerful at the age of thirty-four. She bunched handfuls of her hair about her face, considering how she might dress it in the morning. Then there was the question of what she should wear. Swiftly she went to raise the lids of chests and open the door of her closet. She would not go to him simply clad, for that would have no appeal to a man of extravagant tastes and neither would it suit her mood, for she was at the end of her tether and making a gambler’s last throw.

  She decided on a gown that was in the height of fashion, for although it was not new it was among those she had brought up to date to wear to the opera and other functions with Sebastiano and his wife as well as other good friends who invited her. The hat she would wear needed to have its ribbons changed to the color of the gown. When she had fetched her sewing basket, Marietta went to lift the lid of a chest where she had put many of the mask-trimmings no longer needed in the workshop. There were plumes, jars of sequins, lengths of gauze, and rolls of ribbon among other items. She took what she needed for her task. When she had finished it, she was about to go back to bed when she turned instead to a drawer and pulled it open. In it, beside her jewelry casket, lay a velvet-covered box. It held the golden mask that Domenico was wearing the first time she saw him.

  Opening the box Marietta took out the mask and gazed at it fondly. She had smuggled it out on the day she left the Palazzo Torrisi. Domenico had worn the mask quite often after their marriage, and then not at all, which had told her, as she had always suspected, that it had been a special gift from his first wife. As Marietta had taken hold of his heart, so he had let the mask become a memento, stored away with memories of Angela that were private to him.

  Slowly Marietta stroked its gilded surface, recalling the day in her mother’s workshop when it had lain newly gilded in this same box and she had been deeply affected by the sight of it. She had not known then that this molded likeness would play such a forceful part in the course of her life. It was appropriate that she should renew contact with the mask now, when she was about to embark on a mission as dramatic and fateful as that which had brought her to Venice holding this very mask on that long-ago day.

  When at last Marietta returned the mask to its box and put it away, she felt able to sleep for the few hours left to her.

  Chapter Eighteen

/>   IT WAS ALMOST DAWN WHEN MARIETTA AWOKE AND IMMEDIATELY rose from her bed. The children slept while she bathed and then donned undergarments, stockings, and shoes before putting on a robe to eat breakfast. She had heard that the new commander needed as little sleep as General Bonaparte, which was why she thought her chances of seeing him would be better in the early morning before the business of the day claimed his time. After dressing her hair, massing it in the soft style that echoed the fashionable fullness of skirts over abundant petticoats, she took the gown from where she had lain it during the night hours.

  Its rich peach-pink silk dramatized her hair and the paleness of her skin. It was low-cut with a diaphanous fichu that both concealed and revealed her cleavage. The sleeves were elbow-length, and the top skirt parted to reveal a self-striped underskirt in the same lovely shade. Not to detract from the dramatic impact of this color on that of her hair, she chose simple pearl eardrops and wore no rings except her marriage band. She gave much thought to every detail. Her flamboyant finery would proclaim to her adversary that she would not be cowed by him, whereas the pearls and the plain gold ring would emphasize her status as the wife of his prisoner, telling him that she was not offering herself in exchange for his granting her appeal.

  Yet what if this commanding officer should make that demand? It had ever been the privilege of the conqueror, and by all accounts he was a passionate man. A violent shiver of dread shook her whole frame, making her feel quite faint, and she closed her eyes, gripping the top of a chair for support. Then the sensation passed. If that was the price she had to pay for Domenico’s freedom, it would be done. Nothing in the world, however terrible, had the power to stop her from fulfilling this final chance to save him.

  She took up her hat and carefully lowered it onto her head in front of a mirror. It had the new narrow brim covered in cream silk, the crown was veiled by bunched gauze, and broad peach-pink ribbons trailed down the left side of her face.

  A padding of bare feet made her turn. Elizabetta had appeared, rubbing sleep from her eyes. When she saw how Marietta was dressed she exclaimed in astonishment.

  “Mama! You look like a princess!”

  Marietta smiled. “What a fine compliment to receive so early in the day! I was about to go through to the Savoni house, because everyone will be awake by now, to tell Adrianna that I’m on my way to see the colonel in command at the Doge’s Palace. Now you can do that for me and explain to Lucretia when she wakes.”

  “Can’t I come with you?”

  “No. I have to go alone.” Marietta stooped and kissed the child. “Be good and help Adrianna with the twins. You know what an imp Danilo can be!”

  Marietta took up her silk purse and the packet of papers, which included the pamphlet and the letter from Padua that Pietro had handed to her just before his departure with Elena. He had understood that after such news she would wish to have some time to be alone.

  “Wave to me at the window, Mama,” Elizabetta requested.

  “I will!”

  Outside in the calle, as Marietta waved back to the child, she thought it as well that her purpose and destination should be known. If she should be arrested for any reason, at least her friends would know where she was.

  As Marietta emerged from the calle the sun was gilding the roofs and chimney pots as well as the busy scene on the Grand Canal and its flanking parades where men and women of almost every trade were making ready for the day. She hailed a gondola and asked to be taken to the Molo. It was not long before she saw the Doge’s Palace shimmering pink and gold with nothing to show at this distance that everything within was not as it always had been.

  As she alighted at the Molo, French soldiers in their shirtsleeves were grooming the army horses stabled in the graceful marble colonnades of the palace, and they paused to whistle and call to her as she went by. She paid no heed, walking swiftly along the Piazzetta to the ornate gateway where sentries stood guard. Before reaching it, she noticed in a flower-seller’s basket a few sprigs of pomegranate blossom among the other blooms. It evoked such memories of the Pietà that she stopped to buy a small spray, which she tucked into her cleavage like a talisman.

  The sentries did not question her as she went through the gateways for there was plenty of coming and going, both military and civilian. She avoided a minor entrance where most people were stating their business. That was not for her. She went instead to ascend the Giants’ Staircase, a small yet brilliant figure against the vast setting of pale marble and Renaissance grandeur. She passed through the portal at the head of the stairs and made her entry into the gilded interior of the building itself.

  A sergeant on duty stepped forward. Only high-ranking officers and important personages came by this entrance, but this splendidly attired and fine-looking woman had an air about her that said she had every right to be there.

  “Good day, signora.”

  She replied in French. “I’m here to see the commander.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, that’s why I came early. He will see me.”

  The sergeant was uncertain. “What is the purpose of your visit?”

  “It is a private matter.” Marietta had decided before her arrival that bluff might get her through where all else would fail. “You have no right to ask.”

  The sergeant withdrew to speak to two lieutenants. They heard what he had to say and turned to Marietta, an appreciative look coming into their eyes. One came forward with a smile. It was easy to see that he and his fellow officer took her to be some new lady love of their commanding officer. “This way, madame,” he said in his own language. “It is the hour when the colonel deals with his correspondence and there is not a great deal on his desk today. I will take you to him.”

  She went at his side through splendid halls and corridors, many of which she had traversed with Domenico on grander occasions. Here and there paintings were missing and she saw several empty plinths. The lieutenant engaged her in light conversation, complimenting her on her French, asking if she had lived in Venice for a long time, and expressing his own admiration of the beautiful city. When they reached the anteroom to the commander’s quarters, a sergeant who was seated at a desk sprang to attention at the lieutenant’s approach.

  “This lady is here to see the colonel,” the lieutenant said. Then he turned to her. “Your name, madame?”

  “I can be announced as Signora Marietta.”

  The lieutenant drew his own conclusions. This was a married woman who did not want her name bandied about. “It has been an honor to meet you, madame.”

  He saluted and would have left her to be shown through, but the sergeant had narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “I know this woman. She runs the mask-shop in the Calle della Madonna. I bought several masks there for my wife and daughters when I first came to Venice. She’s the wife of the prisoner Torrisi!”

  The lieutenant’s whole manner changed. “Remove her from the palace!” he snapped.

  Marietta made a dash for the colonel’s door, but the sergeant was quick and caught her in an iron grip. In the struggle, her packet of papers slipped from her grasp and were scattered everywhere, but she was given no chance to retrieve them. She protested furiously as she was manhandled away from the anteroom, but they had not gone far along the corridor when the lieutenant shouted after them.

  “Wait, sergeant! Bring Madame Torrisi back. The colonel will see her.”

  Marietta could only suppose that the colonel had made inquiries as to the noise outside his door and had shown some tolerance when told what had happened. She found that the lieutenant had gathered up her papers, and he presented them to her with a bow.

  “My apologies, madame.”

  She inclined her head in acceptance as she took them. He had only been doing his duty. The sergeant opened the door to an opulent salon and she was announced by her full name. The man she had come to see was looking out the window, his shoulders broad in the dark blue jacket of his uniform, the tricol
or sash about his waist. His dark hair was cropped and well groomed in the style that was as different from the mode of powdered wigs as it could be—another rejection of anything remotely resembling the old regime in France.

  “It is gracious of you to see me, Colonel.”

  He answered her in a well-remembered voice. “My dear Marietta, when I saw you crossing the courtyard I thought you had discovered I was here. That was foolish of me, wasn’t it?”

  Alix, older and more serious in mien, turned and smiled at her. Marietta stood as if transfixed. “Alix!” she exclaimed faintly. “I can scarcely believe it!”

  He walked across to her. “I’ve finally come back to Venice as I promised, although it’s not as either of us expected it would be. You are more beautiful than ever! Please take off that hat, fashionable though it is. You never used to wear one.”

  She made no move except to draw back a step, filled with dismay. In spite of his genial manner, this was not the Alix she had known for those few brief halcyon weeks, but the man who had rejected her for another woman and could as easily turn from her again when he heard the purpose of her visit. Was he even to be trusted with her request? He might have become more an enemy to Venice than his commander Bonaparte! “I’m not here to display myself,” she said coolly.

  “Forgive me,” he replied more formally. “I was taking too much for granted. But do sit down. I’m more pleased to see you again than you could possibly realize.” When she had arranged herself stiffly on the brocade sofa, he sat down at an angle to face her, resting an arm along the back, with one long leg crossed over the other in tight white breeches, his high black boots polished and gleaming. “I’ve thought about you many times and wondered how you were. Whenever an Italian opera company came to Paris I always attended the performance and scanned the program in the hope of seeing your name.”